meet me in the aftermath
by quinlinkin
Summary: After becoming separated from the last remaining survivors of the cabin group, Nick's world is shifted once again as he is brought face to face with an uprising formation who call themselves "The New Frontier". Yet salvation isn't so simple for someone who doesn't want to be saved, and trust isn't as easily earned when there's no more trust left to give. [ HIATUS! ]
1. chase the crazy right out of my head

[ ¤¤¤ ]

"If we can make it through the storm  
And become who we were before  
Promise me we'll never look back  
The worst is far behind us now  
We'll make it out of here somehow  
Meet me in the aftermath

 _Oh, meet me in the aftermath_."

\- Lifehouse

This fanfic is dedicated to my amazing, unconditionally supportive discord mutuals, my adoptive online family. Their love and encouragement keep me motivated to never give up on my writing, and it's through the inspiration they provide that this work came to be a reality. Thank you 3  
 **  
**

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE.  
** [ try to chase the crazy right out of my head ]

* * *

When Nick closes his eyes, all he sees are ghosts.

They appear to him in the shapeless, haunting forms of loved ones, those either long since gone from this barren earth he still clings to, or those whose fate is left entirely unknown. Sometimes, he isn't sure which is worse, nevertheless left to mourn for faces he'll never see again. These ghosts are familiar, yet unrecognizable at the same time, plaguing his every move with their agonizing absence from his life.

Most days, he feels as if he's losing his mind. _Finally_ , he'll think, for insanity must surely be better than the harrowing reality he's forced to face each time he wakes up all alone between the four, cold walls of the bomb shelter he can hardly call home.

Nowhere is home, not anymore. It's by sheer dumb luck he'd managed to find the old bunker, even if there's not an ounce of his mind that can manage to feel lucky. Freeze dried meals and bottled water keep him going physically, while mentally he seems to deteriorate further by the minute. Like a ticking time bomb with no visible countdown, no way to know when it will go off and take with it whatever feeble remains that's left of him.

At night, his memories twist and turn into unforgiving nightmares. He's grateful that sleep regularly alludes him, the preference of suffering with his insomnia far more appealing than dealing with the monsters that creep up on him in the dark of his unconscious.

Above all else, it's the last moments spent with company that torments him the very most. Conscious or not, Nick remains entirely unable to escape it, driven by everything he so desperately wishes he'd done differently. It all plays back to him on a sickening loop, right there behind the blackness of eyelids every time they slip shut for more than a second or two.

He can still hear Sarah's cries echoing in his head, see the twisted agony of her face when they first found her curled up on the dingy carpeted floor of the abandoned trailer she'd sought refuge in. In that moment, so strong and tangible that it had nearly choked him, Nick could feel the last of her innocence ripping away, gone with the man who had fought so hard to preserve it. It overwhelms him even now, the little girl's desperation for her dead parent that reminded him far too much of himself.

He can still count the lines of worry etched into his best friend's face as he repeatedly tried and failed to correct the situation, so completely out of his element for what had seemed like the first time in his life. It terrified Nick to his very core how he could hardly recognize him the more he sputtered and the thinner his patience became. Gone was the kind, soft hearted southern boy he'd grown up with, warped into a solemn and restless man aged far beyond his years, reduced to nothing but a shell of his former self. Nick hated what he'd become, what the world had turned them all into.

Two people who meant the very most to him in what was left of his crumbling life, and he could hardly stand to look at either of them in that very moment.

Helpless. Stupid, good for nothing kid. Nick ran out of there as fast as he could manage, a cowardly escape disguised as a noble attempt. The bullet hole in his shoulder didn't matter, _he_ didn't matter. The lurker that roamed inside of the trailer park compound nearly got its way in ending Nick's life then and there, and as he reflects back on it, he wishes it had.

Pete would have been ashamed of him. His mother would have been appalled to know the only son she worked so hard to raise on her own would be so weak. There was no doubt in his mind that he deserved to get lost in the dense forest around them, deserved to end up alone if it meant that anyone else who mattered would no longer get hurt because of _him_.

Still, he hates himself now more than he ever has before. The time spent drinking whiskey back in the cellar with Clementine nothing but a joke when compared to his recent, endless days spent in isolation, the gunshot wound steadily growing worse with his lack of desire to treat it. After so long fruitlessly struggling to survive, with everything that once kept him grounded now lost and gone away, Nick finally feels content with the idea of dying.

In the beginning days of solitude, he used to think about being rescued. Hours would become lost to useless daydreams that offered him nothing but grief rather than any comfort. He'd imagine that overhead door swinging open to reveal Luke in all his glory, there to save the day as he's done for him so many times before. It used to happen all the time, long before the dead began to walk, when fresh bruises and bloody knuckles stained Nick's skin, back when the hatred for his father was the most they had to worry about.

He misses his best friend's guidance, feels more lost mentally than he does physically without his leadership he's always habitually depended on. Nick can still see his face as clear as day in the back of his mind whenever he lays back and closes his eyes, able to effortlessly imagine every distinct feature with nearly a lifetime spent in his company.

The one he'd fallen for long before he knew what love was all about, the one he can't help but still love despite the blatant unlikeliness of ever seeing him again. It eats away at him from the inside out, the loss of someone so entirely irreplaceable gone with the blink of an eye.

As the tail end of fall bleeds into winter, Nick stops eating. He's finally reached the point of delirium he'd been mindlessly wishing for, yet it's not insanity that can be thanked for it. The infection that unknowingly brews within his shoulder sparks a vicious fever, and with it, hallucinations officially join the mix.

The tiny space dimly lit by the oil lamp beside his ratty old cot dissipates before him, and he wonders for a moment if he's finally slipping away.

Until the hazy fog that envelops him clears as fast as it had set in, and he blinks blearily to find himself suddenly back at the cabin. For a fleeting moment, he almost feels happy again, to be surrounded by the people he's only been able to uselessly mourn for in the past. It's the first time he's able to see the faces of his fallen companions without the gut wrenching agony that usually accompanies their memory, and for once, he allows himself to enjoy it.

His eyes flick between each of their faces. His mother's kind smile, Pete's unwavering, patient gaze. Luke wears the same expression of excitement he'd come to yearn for in his later years, while Sarah has rightfully earned back her innocence as she proudly stands underneath her father's watchful eye. Next to Alvin's calming presence, Rebecca has adorned her motherly glow as she holds in her protecting arms the newborn infant he hadn't gotten the chance to meet. Clementine no longer looks to him with skepticism or doubt, but rather with a sense of childlike joy he's never seen on her face.

All seems so right with being so wrong. In the distance, creeping from the shadows out of nowhere, Nick can hear an unfamiliar voice break through the haze, so out of place among those who surround him. He feels instantly defensive, the desire to protect building inside him like a blazing inferno, swallowing up what little fear he has left in him. He won't let it slip away this time, can't let himself run away again from those who need him.

He stands his ground as he should have done time and time before.

"No!" His voice sounds feeble in comparison to the ferocity he feels inside his head. The intruding voice only grows stronger, closer, and is soon joined by several others.

Too many, _too close_. He won't let them hurt his family.

He tries again. " _Get the fuck back_!"

As desired, the voices abruptly come to a stop. He's about to breathe sigh of relief when someone speaks up again, and he wants to scream, trash, fight them back to wherever they came from. This particular voice is feminine, rough around the edges, and he strains to hear what she's saying.

"David, we can't just leave him here."

 _Why not_ , he thinks, and it's with that very thought he suddenly realizes he's coming back to his senses. The faces of his loved ones slowly begin to fade away in front of him, to be replaced with the blurry shapes of strangers, and he reaches out with a choked sob as they're ripped away from him yet again.

There's a long stretch of silence as Nick is pulled back from the comfort of his hallucination, and for a moment, when he closes his eyes, it's as if he's all alone again. It's near impossible to differentiate between what's real and what's not, whether anything he sees before his very eyes are a product of ill-induced imagination or tangible factuality.

A deeper, gruffer voice breaks through the quiet air shortly after.

"Hey. Can you hear me?"

Nick doesn't dare speak, doesn't trust his own head and its warped perception of reality. The more he blinks, the more features he can make out on these foreign people's faces. He can count four bodies in total, all crammed inside the tiny bunker alongside him, and none offer him any sort of consolation.

The man who'd last spoken is far closer than the rest, crouching a mere few feet away from the cot Nick is spread out upon. If he wasn't so drained of all his senses, he might think about punching him in the face to prove his existence.

"Look, we're not animals." The woman's voice breaks through again, urgent and unwavering as she looks between the faces of her comrades. "We can't rob him and leave him to die."

Nick can't grasp why anyone would bother to care about him or his wellbeing, most especially in his obvious state of peril. He's not sure he'd be able to walk out of here if he wanted to, and he's undoubtedly not willing to let them carry him.

His life isn't worth that kind of trouble anymore; he's not sure if it _ever_ was.

The man in front of him heaves a great sigh, a look of conflict passing across his features before he takes on his previous overall expression of stoicness. He stands tall, and looks back towards the rest.

"Pack up what you can. Food, water, medical supplies, we can use it all."

The woman steps forward in an instant. "And what about-"

He doesn't give her a chance to finish, raising a hand that silences her on what seems like a reflex. He casts a solemn look towards Nick, who does his best to glare back. Though his vision has since become blurry again, not by delusion, but rather a sudden creeping feeling of exhaustion he can't seem to fight against. He feels himself slipping into unconsciousness faster than he can process.

Nick fails to hear the man's next response as he slumps against the battered mattress, nor does he get the chance to verbalize his desire to be left behind. He'd rather die here than be taken away by these people, the fight to persevere sucked clean from his tired bones. He's been through too much, can no longer stand to go on living after everything that's repeatedly shot him down.

His body reduced to ash, his mind a barren wasteland of pain and misery, the bunker which had originally offered him sanctuary has morphed into the tomb where he's content to lay forever. There's nothing peaceful about it, yet shall become his salvation if it means he'll never have to walk this unforgiving earth ever again.

Voices swarm around him, and as his mind gives way to darkness once again, he doesn't feel himself being lifted from his grave.

* * *

chapter song: _echo - jason walker_.

any feedback is greatly appreciated & encouraged! i would love to hear what your thoughts are about this fic.

find me over at my personal tumblr (under the same username) for any further inquiries & chapter updates!


	2. just leave my soul alone

[ ¤¤¤ ]

 **CHAPTER TWO.  
** [ just leave my soul alone ]

* * *

As heavy eyelids open to the brisk air around him, Nick's nothing short of disappointed to find himself still breathing. The dreamless sleep had been a much welcomed break from his recent accounts of terrorizing nightmares, and he wishes nothing more but to simply be able go back to sleep for the rest of eternity.

Blinking blearily up at the blackened ceiling as his mind struggles to catch up with consciousness, it takes a while for Nick to realize something isn't quite right. There's an odd sort of flapping noise to his immediate right, unrecognizable and foreign to the stark silence he's grown used to. Once his pupils manage to adjust to the darkness around him, the area gives way to a warm, flickering glow of what seems to be fire from an unknown source outside. Still, it remains difficult for him to perceive his surroundings, until something vaguely familiar breaks through his hazy senses.

Voices. He's heard them before, yet this time they seem to be accompanied by others he doesn't recognize. There's a fleeting thought about the possibility of an extended dream, that all those voices and strange faces that had previously surrounded him in the confines of the bomb shelter had all been but another product of his imagination. He's certainly had vivid, remarkably lifelike dreams before, and such an event repeating itself doesn't feel out of the range of likelihood.

Though it doesn't seem believable enough to him, even when taking his most recent accounts of hallucinations and delirium into consideration. The air around him feels _too_ real, the distant voices too clear to be mistaken for fiction. Nick fumbles around in the dark for something to leverage himself on, searching for anything that could prove to himself that he isn't stuck in some kind of tangible mirage once again.

The IV line in his arm does the trick.

He discovers it purely by accident, his fingertips brushing a little too hard along the tail end of the needle that feeds underneath his skin. A knee jerk reaction in response to the sharp pain it brings has him bolting upright, ignoring how his head spins in favor of desperately trying to remove this foreign object from his body.

It's funny, how the little, insignificant memories still manage to find their way of sneaking from deep within his subconscious. Even in his state of panic, ripping off the medical tape that holds the needle in place, Nick can faintly make out Luke's voice in the back of his head.

Luke would always take up issue with movie characters who'd have the very same reaction, outwardly cringing at the screen as they tore needles clean out of their arms without an apparent second thought.

" _Ain't a chance in hell anyone would actually do that_!" he'd vigilantly protest, and Nick would always simply shrug in response. He'd never been much of a movie critic no matter how hard his friend would try to drag him into a debate during every film they'd ever watched together.

Luke would go on to say how unrealistic it was to happen so often in the world of cinematography, and Nick thinks with a bitterly suppressed laugh how wrong he used to be as he recreates his own remarkably similar scene without him.

Nick barely manages to free himself from whatever he'd been hooked up to as the flapping noise from before gives way to a loud rustling, and in the next moment, he's bathed in soft yellow light.

"Woah, now. There's no need for all that."

This voice is new, and eerily calm in a way that instantaneously makes Nick's skin crawl. His eyes squint against the glow of the lantern in the man's hand, and manages to identify a lab coat draped over his shoulders. It looks almost humorously out of place, the idea of proper doctors a luxury of the past, and the need to dress accordingly rendered mute now that hospitals were no longer operational. Carlos surely never wore anything of the sort after the world had fallen around them.

"I figured you'd be out for quite a while longer," the man goes on, seemingly unaffected by Nick's wild eyes, much like a frenzied, wild animal who's been forcibly cornered. "Why, it's barely been a day since they brought you here."

It confirms all at once that Nick _isn't_ where he wants to be, and a new wave of panic sets in. For as much as he'd grown to despise that damned bunker, it had at least been a place of familiarity, one he'd managed to ironically feel safe in. Instead, he's unwillingly been thrown into what he could now register as a makeshift tent - an explanation to the flapping he can still hear in the background - surrounded by utter strangers with unknown intentions.

'Stranger danger' effectively takes on an entirely darker, often sinister meaning in the world of the apocalypse, and Nick's trust has worn so thin that it's long since snapped in two. There's nowhere he _wants_ to be anymore, but he figures there has to still be plenty of other places far better than here.

"Who the fuck are you?" Nick's voice is scratchy and raw with misuse, and it ought to be a comfort that he's apparently mentally stable enough to be defensive at all. Naturally, with his guard up this high, and red flags firing off to signal every last sense of instinct he has left in him, all he knows how to respond with is hostility.

"Ah, where are my manners? My name is Dr. Lingard. I've been tending to you since David brought you here yesterday evening." He continues to speak in the same drawn out, monotone voice that doesn't comfort Nick in the slightest. "And, by the looks of it, I'm going to have to put that IV of yours back in."

"The hell you will," Nick snarls, backing up as far as he can physically manage on the rickety cot. Panic has made plenty of room for aggression, as natural to him as breathing. Even so, it feels odd to be fighting for the life he's long since given up on.

Lingard's calm demeanor doesn't shift an inch as he sets the lamp down on the ground, his black rimmed glasses reflecting in the low light. "Listen, son, please do understand that my only intentions are to help you."

 _Son_. Such a simple, harmless term, one that this man surely didn't think twice about using. Just like that, the dam that's been building in his mind for ages breaks, memories of his uncle flooding in to drown him all over again. Red flashes behind his eyes as his hands curl into white-knuckled fists.

He explodes.

"I didn't ask for your fucking help!" he shouts hoarsely, body trembling as his anger rises to dangerous levels in an instant. "I didn't ask to be brought here, I didn't ask for _any_ of this! Why can't you people just leave me alone!?"

As if on cue, the tent opening pulls back sharply to reveal another figure, and Nick is able to easily recognize him as he steps into the dimly light confines of the tent. Somehow, his mere presence is enough to stop his temper from escalating any further, a likely result of familiarity playing its part despite the fact that Nick still doesn't know anything about him.

"What's going on in here?" His voice is every bit as strong and authoritative as Nick remembers. Lingard eyes him with the first sign of any true emotion, somewhat of an exasperated look crossing over his face.

"He doesn't want to be helped, it seems," Lingard sighs, shaking his head disapprovingly. Nick glowers at him on reflex. an already established dislike for the doctor brewing within his stubborn brain.

Lingard turns to address the man directly. "David, I-"

Much the same as yesterday, a simple raise of his hand effectively silences him. "You've done what you can for now, Paul. You can go - I'd like to have a talk with him privately."

David - the name Nick only barely manages to recall from his previous interaction with him - projects a certain type of calmness that's far different than the doctor's had been. It doesn't unnerve him, rather intrigues him as he watches the other with a studying gaze. He hates to admit that he finds him somewhat interesting to observe without knowing the reason why.

It doesn't seem out of the ballpark to assume this man as the leader of this foreign group of people. Nick remembers the woman from yesterday in her efforts to negotiate with him, the amount of respect that she seemed to hold for him displayed simply by the tone of her voice and her overall body language. Lingard appears looks to him for guidance after Nick's outburst, as suggested by the visible change in his demeanor.

The doctor nods his head, and leaves through the tent opening without another word. Nick has since grown utterly silent, his eyes full of distrust and skepticism as he looks uneasily towards David.

When the other man opens his mouth again, it isn't what Nick would have expected. "How's that shoulder feel?"

Somehow, lost somewhere amidst the chaos and dismay, the state of his wound had gone entirely unnoticed. Nick quickly turns his head to peer down at the offending limb, and isn't surprised to find it securely bandaged, the frayed, white edges of clean gauze peeking out through the collar of his ratty band shirt. There's no doubt it's been properly cleaned and attended to, and it's the idea of being treated without his consent that sparks another round of anger inside him.

If David notices the deep furrowing of his brows or the tensing of his jaw, he doesn't show it. There's a chair next to the cot that Nick's huddled on, and he pulls it close to sit down. A display of benevolence, an act used to achieve a sense of comfortability. Nick's therapist used to do it all the time.

It doesn't work so easily on him.

"Why do you care?" he snaps, even as his voice fails to raise above a strained whisper. It prompts an unreadable look to pass over David's face, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"I made the decision to bring you here," the other responds cooly. "I'm responsible for the well-being of everyone in this camp - that also includes you."

The answer doesn't please Nick in the slightest. Living the life of a burden proved something he'd formerly believed he'd never have to worry about again, sick and tired of dragging everyone around him down with his lacking ability to do anything right.

Another mouth to feed, another lost soul to care for. He doesn't need that kind of support. They've already used far more than what he's worth in valuable medical supplies, and he's adamant in ensuring nothing else to be heedlessly wasted on him.

"Yeah, well… that's a mistake," he mutters, picking at the edge of the fresh bandage with an overwhelming desire to tear it all off.

David crosses his arms over his chest, raising a single brow. "Why is it a mistake?"

"Because!" he snaps, glowering at the other once more. "It was my choice to leave or stay, and - and you decided for me. I don't care if you say it was ' _the right thing to do_ ', my life is none of your Goddamn business. You don't even _know_ me."

A deep, steadying breath leaves David's lips as he leans back in his chair, a stretch of silence settling uneasily between them. Nick hopes more than anything that he's getting under his skin, making him realize his error in trying to rescue a life no longer worth saving.

Instead, all he's offered is another question. "Tell me this; why do you not want to be helped?"

Grunting softly, Nick adverts his gaze. He doesn't appreciate the third degree being thrown his way, doesn't like playing these kinds of games. He ponders over David's inquiry for a long while despite already knowing the answer. He's been over it in his head a thousand times before, yet it doesn't make it any easier to form into words.

"I… don't know," he eventually mumbles, choosing the weak lie over admitting the truth. He doesn't expect the other man to buy it, though he sincerely hopes he'll take the hint and drop the subject.

He should know by now that luck is never on his side.

David huffs, and answers for him. "What, you figure life isn't worth living anymore? Is that it? You think it's easier to give up than face another day?"

Blue eyes snap up in an instant, and Nick stares indignantly ahead at him. He can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, the urge to turn defensive crawling back up his throat.

"Why'd you ask if you got it all figured out, huh?" Nick scowls, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. David doesn't bat an eye as he leans forward in his chair.

"You'd be right, you know," he says calmly, seeming to ignore Nick's bitter retort. "It would be hell of a lot easier to give up."

It isn't what Nick expected to hear, and it effectively wipes the sneer clean off his face. He recoils with the lack of a solid comeback, suddenly unable to so much as respond with anything at all towards his untimely statement.

"But the thing is - life isn't _supposed_ to be easy. It wouldn't be worth a damned thing if it was." His voice is assertive yet steady, face adorning the flash of what almost looks to be mild despair before it's gone just as fast. All Nick can do is stare. "There's not a single thing you could tell me that'd surprise me, or couldn't relate to at least one of the people outside this tent."

Somehow, Nick doesn't doubt any of it. While it does nothing to ease the suffering he feels in his bones, or change the outlook about his fate he's since made his mind up on, it gives him a lot to think about whether he wants to or not.

David sighs, seeming to already accept the fact he'll be unable to draw much more of a conversation from him. Though he goes on anyway, his posture straightening in his seat.

"I can't pretend to know what you've been through. All I'm saying is, you're not the only one who's been where you are right now." He pauses, dark eyes trained on Nick's so intently that the latter has to look away. "You won't be the only one who finds a way to get through it, either."

Nick resists the urge to scoff, brows knitting together as he bores holes into the ground with the intensity of his gaze. "You don't know that," he says sternly.

David doesn't miss a beat. "And neither do you." Although Nick refuses to meet his gaze again, his troubled expression softens despite himself. "I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

On a dime, something inside Nick becomes unhinged as David finally stands to face the tent's opening with the clear intent to leave. There's so much he still wants to say, points he wants made crystal clear that he doesn't feel have gotten across despite his earlier backlash. He struggles internally with too much to say at once, never one to be good with his words.

"This - this doesn't change anything. Okay?" he pipes up, trying to express the proper amount of gravity in his voice. "I don't want that damn doctor back in here again. Just… leave me alone. Please..."

For once, as desired, all that's offered in reply is a curt nod from the other as he takes his leave. Nick watches his back turn before disappearing through the flimsy makeshift door. Alone yet again, the air around him seems to grow colder regardless of the fact that solitude is what he's convinced he desires above anything else.

David's words repeat endlessly inside his head no matter how hard he tries to will them all away. Stubbornness doesn't allow them to sink in entirely, though he simply can't deny they hadn't created some sort of undesired effect of consideration within him.

' _You won't be the only one who finds a way to get through it, either_ '.

Oh, if only life were so simple.

* * *

chapter song: _weighty ghost - wintersleep_.

any feedback is greatly appreciated & encouraged! i would love to hear what your thoughts are about this fic.

find me over at my personal tumblr (under the same username) for any further inquiries & chapter updates!


	3. no forgiveness for all that you've known

[ ¤¤¤ ]

 **CHAPTER THREE.  
** [ no forgiveness for all that you've known ]

* * *

He doesn't know how much time has passed, idly listening to the faint, persistent buzz of voices and laughter outside the thin material of the medical tent. It's been a long time since he's brooded over anything, his endless days in solitude spent trapped in an endless disarray of grief and heartache. No comfort arises from the bare minimum sensation of _almost_ -normalcy, nor does he care about the fact that he should feel somehow grateful for coming this far on his own.

His mindset hasn't changed. He still knows he'd be better off dead.

Refusing to lay back down on the cot for some much needed rest, the night grows impossibly darker around him. There's a support beam behind him that ends up serving him well enough to prop his back against, even if it only barely keeps him from toppling over. He's weak in more ways than one, unable to recall the last time his stomach held a meal. As much as he'd love to deny it, the IV line he'd mindlessly ripped out had indeed done more help than he'd initially realized. Without it, his body has begun it's spiral back down into oblivion, crumbling in on itself without anything left to support it.

Nick figures it's only a matter of time before he's right back to where he started. The bomb shelter may have been a death sentence, but at least he felt sure he belonged there, as sick or twisted as it may be. This place holds no familiarity, full of strange faces who want to poke and prod him until he caves in and accepts it.

It won't be that easy. He's spent far too much time in the company of death to give into the fake illusion of hope. The world around them has made no room for it, for he's learned the hard way that hoping doesn't get you anywhere except straight towards crushing disappointment. As he thinks long and hard about it, he's not so sure hope had _ever_ been truly present in his life, even before the apocalypse's untimely arrival upon him.

Somewhere during the night, hopelessly lost in gruelling thought, Nick's senses finally give in to the exhaustion he's been fighting so urgently against. He doesn't realize he's fallen asleep at all until he wakes with a start to a drastically brightened tent interior. The lantern that Lingard left behind has since burned down to a dull, flickering glow, and Nick watches it until it's fizzled out completely.

The tent flap swinging open unexpectedly has him nearly jumping out of his skin, and he once again resumes his place of huddled against the back wall as somebody enters his space. At first, Nick expects it to be the doctor in a pointless attempt to bring aid to him again, or perhaps David with some more choice words for him to unwillingly think about.

He's quickly proved wrong on both accounts, as the early morning light illuminates the figure of yet another foreign individual. Yet the more that Nick takes in their appearance, the less unfamiliar it truly is.

The woman is short, and dark skinned. Her bald head showcases a large, healed scar in all its glory, a noticeable feature that Nick does his best not to stare at. He knows he's seen her before, and it all comes flooding back to him the second she opens her mouth.

"Hey," she says all too casually, as if greeting an old friend. "I'm Ava."

Her voice registers to his memory immediately. She's the one who'd argued on his behalf the day before, the majority of the reason he's sitting right where he is in this very moment. If it wasn't for her, he could very well be back in the confines of his bunker, and a large part of him wants to unfairly hate her for it.

Ava plops down on the chair David had left unoccupied, crossing her legs and reclining back into her seat as if she could call this place her home. Nick stares wordlessly at the laces of her dirty combat boots, feeling as if he's being scrutinized despite the fact that her gaze is the least bit judgemental.

She doesn't seem deterred by his lack of a response. "So, you gonna finally give me a name, or what? I'm already sick of calling you ' _the new guy_ '."

It unnerves Nick to know she's apparently been telling others about his arrival, though he supposes not much can be kept a secret anymore. Peering eyes and curious souls still existed just as they did in the modern world, always poised to jump at the chance to judge and criticize about things they know nothing about.

Still, he decides to humor her. "Nick."

Ava hums - an airy, carefree sound that bubbles effortlessly from her throat. It seems that the more time he spends in her presence, the less sure he feels about her. Although no direct threat emits from her presence, there's an odd sense of unease that he can't quite place. It makes him want to squirm atop the old cot, his eyes looking everywhere but the chair Ava's seated in.

A moment of silence stretches between them, until Ava clears her throat and smiles crookedly. "Not much of a talker, are you?" Her voice is followed by a curt shrug of her shoulders. "It's cool. Neither was I, at first."

Nick understands what she's trying to do, and he can't deny the urge - however slight that urge may be - to give in to her efforts in getting him talking, regardless of the persistent stubbornness that tells him to stand his ground.

She doesn't give him the chance to decide. "David, he was in here earlier, yeah? He give you an earful or what?"

Nick shrugs his good shoulder. He's still not sure what to make of his previous encounter with the man, nor does he have the desire to share any of his current thought process with her. It's bad enough that he'd spent all night going over it in his head, and the idea of discussing it further in the daylight hours sounds about as appealing to him as a lurker bite.

If anything, he'd be more inclined to voice his disapproval about _Lingard_ than David. He'd spent less time with the doctor than anyone here so far, and yet he seems to have the strongest opinion about him. The dislike he feels for him is unjustified, and the unwanted care he provided to him has nothing to do with it.

"I guess," he settles on muttering. He has yet to meet her eye, though she doesn't seem to be put off by his reclusiveness. If anything, it seems to intrigue her.

Unprompted, she continues on. "He's a pretty damn good guy, y'know. Knew him before all this shit went down, always had my back when I needed it." Nick meets her eye despite himself, and doesn't miss the peculiar glint in her eye. "You'll learn to like him. Eventually."

In retrospect, her vouch for the man doesn't count for much, for a stranger's words about another stranger can't possibly hold water. Though he takes in her words carefully, feeling inclined to ask about him in spite of his instinct to withdraw.

"He the boss, or what?"

"Yup," she says, before taking it upon herself to clarify. "It's not just him, though; there are four people who run the show. Dr. Lingard is one of them."

He disregards the mention of the doctor, his mouth seeming to run on autopilot now that the ice has seemingly been broken. "And the others? They plannin' on stickin' their noses in here, too?"

Ava simply smiles, and shakes her head. "Newcomers are David's forte. He handles them until they decide to either settle in, or move on. Lingard usually only steps in if any medical care is needed." She gestures to his bandaged shoulder. Nick looks away.

"Huh. Awfully noble of them," he grumbles insincerely. Ava remains unphased by his bitterness.

"We do what we can," she shrugs, making a sort of waving gesture with her hand. "Good people are hard to come by nowadays."

Nick involuntarily makes a face at that, eyebrows nipping together and mouth upturning slightly. Ava doesn't seem to miss a thing, addressing it before he can even properly realize he'd reacted at all to her statement. He supposes he's more of an open book than he wants to be, sometimes.

"What about you, then?" There's an airy lilt to her voice that matches her cheeky grin perfectly. "You one of the good guys? Or do we have to all watch our backs now that you're here?"

The way she jokes suggests she's somehow got him all figured out. He's quick to set the record straight.

"I… I'm not a good person," he mutters, brows pulling together. Ava tilts her head curiously.

"No? How come?"

He finally looks up then, yet doesn't quite meet her eyes. "Is anyone _really_ good anymore?"

She shrugs one shoulder. "I'd like to think so."

"So does everyone," Nick interjects, chewing hard at the inside of his cheek as he wonders why he's so inclined to speak his mind like this. "Don't make it so."

Ava hums softly, seeming to keep up with his bounds of negativity with ease. "Good point, bucko. Still, isn't it better to hope there is?"

Ironic, how she brings up the idea of hope after he'd thought so much about it the night before. The hole he's dug for himself has gone too deep to pull himself out of, the idea of hope gone far away with the last remaining people who meant anything to him.

"Hopin' ain't worth a damn thing." He speaks from the heart - from far too much first-hand experience.

"Ah, I wouldn't say that," Ava says, and Nick thinks with the faintest hint of defeat that it must be impossible to deter her. He supposes he can say the same about himself on the polar opposite side of the spectrum. "If there wasn't any hope, there wouldn't be anything left."

Nick can't help but feel that there isn't anything left as it is. Hope has never been there for him before, and he doesn't see why he should put his faith in it now when it's done nothing but let him down the rare times he's given into it.

Even so, he doesn't feel like continuing this back-and-forth of differing opinions, and instead offers her a weak sort of mediation. "Maybe…"

Again, Ava sees right through him. "You always been so pessimistic?"

Nick scoffs. " _You_ always been so optimistic?"

That draws a real, genuine laugh from Ava that Nick doesn't expect. People usually don't find his bitter remarks comical.

"Touché," Ava smiles, giving him a curt, almost respectful nod. It feels out of place to be directed at him. "For the record, though - I'm not as optimistic as you might think. I'd say I'm more of a realist than anything."

"Yeah, well. Reality fuckin' sucks," Nick says without thinking, and it's the truth.

She laughs again. "It sure does."

She reminds him of Luke, somehow. But then again, he supposes just about everything does. Still, she possesses that same kind of resolute, free spirit that he used to carry - at least, before the world finally got to him.

It's a grim reminder of what Nick's lost, what he'll never be able to get back ever again. It's a reality that's far worse than any nightmare, still feeling as if he's suffocating without his guidance, steadily losing more air each time he wakes without him.

"So," Ava murmurs after a moment of silence, making a vague gesture towards his impaired shoulder. "How'd that happen?"

He closes his eyes as it all plays back to him yet again. Although everything had happened so blindingly fast, Nick can still recall every detail with overwhelming clarity. The terrified look on Carlos' face as he fell to his knees for the very last time, the sound of Sarah's desperate scream as she watched helplessly from the sidelines. The white-hot burning in his shoulder as the bullet passed through layers of flesh and muscle was the least of his worries, for it hadn't slowed him in the slightest from sticking close to Luke's heels with the fear of losing him in the churning sea of undead faces.

"It's… a long story," he sighs, a blatant deflection of revealing the harrowing truth, of going _there_ again even if it's all he thinks about.

She nods slowly, and though Nick half-expects her to push him for further details, she leaves it at that. "I'll bet."

And just like that, the conversation is lost. Although it hadn't been much of an eventful one to begin with, the silence that settles between them makes Nick feel dizzy as he's left internally fighting to keep his mind from racing now that it's been stimulated by unkind memories.

He tries to focus on the persistent hum of incoherent chatter outside, the faint creaking of leafless trees as they're swept about by the cold, winter breeze. He even manages to make out the sound of a crackling fire somewhere to his left, until he can't shut up his mind any longer.

"Why're you here, anyway?" he speaks before he can think, the first thing popping to mind blurting out into the open as a desperate attempt to redirect his attention to something - _anything_ else. His tone is far more abrupt than it probably should be, the question abrasive and rude, yet he doesn't try to backtrack or apologize.

For the first time upon entering the tent to join him, Ava's face becomes unreadable. She doesn't try to smile or brush him off, doesn't answer with something witty or casual as she had done so seamlessly before. Nick wonders for a moment if he's managed to actually offend her.

Until she finally opens her mouth, and what comes out is something Nick would have never expected. "You… remind me of my brother."

His mouth goes dry as he stares at her from across the expanse of the tent, lost for words he feels he doesn't have the right to speak anyway. It's such a simple, would-be innocent statement, though Nick already knows it holds the weight of the world without Ava having to explain. He can see it by the look on her face, which has now adorned into something soft, yet incredibly sad around the edges.

He hates that expression. Has seen it more times than he can count on the faces of his loved ones, has felt it on his own face more times that he cares to recollect. He doesn't like seeing it on Ava's face, now.

A second time, he speaks without thinking. His voice doesn't reach above a whisper, and it's hardly a question. "Is that why you wanted to help me."

"No." Her response comes a little too quickly, her hands wringing in her lap. "Not… entirely. I'd have wanted to help you anyway."

Nick can't comprehend such a statement.

"Why?" he asks, genuinely confused as to why a sheer stranger like her would ever want to save such a lost, broken soul. She didn't have to know him to see his pitiful state at the bottom of that bunker.

"Everyone deserves another chance," she tells him, trying to meet his eye that he's adamant on reflecting. "Everyone."

"Bullshit." His reply catches even himself off-guard, a sentimental moment turned sour in an instant. It's clear that some things never change.

"Why is it bullshit?" Gone is that breezy, carefree tone she'd adapted to earlier, replaced with something far more bland and straightforward. Nick automatically doesn't like it.

He doesn't have to think of an answer. For in an instant, his mind flashes back to Carver, and with his memory follows everything he'd put them through, what he'd ultimately taken away. If it wasn't for him, even Nick has to somehow believe they'd still be able to call their cabin home, and that fact alone makes his blood boil for the man now dead and gone.

People like him didn't deserve _shit_. Kenny had been right to end him once and for all no matter how Luke saw fit.

"People only deserve as much as they earn." He can hear Pete flowing through his words, another reminder that his influence had impacted him far more than he used to realize. "Sometimes people are better off left alone… Bad people shouldn't be given more chances to do bad things."

"You…" she trails off, and Nick can feel her gaze boring into his skin from his peripheral vision. "You're not talking about yourself anymore, are you?"

He grunts low in the back of his throat and hunches his shoulders, ignoring the pain it causes him. "Don't matter who I'm talkin' about. The point's still the same."

Ava watches him wordlessly for another moment before sighing heavily. "You're right. Bad people _shouldn't_ be given chances to do bad things," she agrees, and it's clear she isn't satisfied to leave it at that. "But - don't you think bad people should be given chances to do _good_ things?"

It's wishful thinking, and Nick has the feeling that Ava knows that, too. Yet he can't deny the fact that the statement causes him to think more than he wants to.

"It ain't that easy," he mumbles, unwilling to give into anything but the preconceived idea that bad is a permanent state of mind.

"I know it isn't," she says, though her tone is a bit more dignified that it had been previously. "I'm just saying - maybe sometimes it _can_ be."

Nick falls silent, and this time, stays silent. Ava seems to pick up on his distaste for further discussion well enough, for in the next breath, she's standing to her feet.

"Y'know, I get that you didn't want to be saved. I really do," she says out of the blue, and Nick looks up despite himself. "All I'm saying is - mindsets can always be changed."

A low, breathy curse escapes through chapped lips the minute she leaves him back to his solitude. It's no doubt that this place sure seems to have a certain thing for inspiring pep talks, though Nick remains unconvinced they'll ever manage to work on him.

Then again, he has a feeling they won't stop trying, either - _Ava_ , most particularly. As much as he hates to regard it, the smallest portion of his subconscious nags at him to give in the longer he stays here. The fact that it's barely been a day does nothing at all to console him.

* * *

chapter song: _second chances - imagine dragons_.

any feedback is greatly appreciated & encouraged! i would love to hear what your thoughts are about this fic.

find me over at my personal tumblr (under the same username) for any further inquiries & chapter updates!


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